


A Jerry Springer Kind Of Family Christmas

by vinegardog



Category: Farscape
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Christmas, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28502214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinegardog/pseuds/vinegardog
Summary: The crew of Moya attempts to recreate the magic of Christmas to cheer John Crichton up
Relationships: John Crichton/Aeryn Sun
Kudos: 7





	A Jerry Springer Kind Of Family Christmas

Written for A Damned Scientist's SC123 on Terra Firma - A Christmas Catharsis.

Setting: Moya at an unspecified time (well,Christmas time on Earth) towards the end of S2 of the show.

No major spoilers

Word count: circa 3200

Rating: PG

No beta. I really had no ideas and I don’t even know if the fic meets all of the parameters of the SC but this what you are getting and there’s nothing you can do about it, ADS! :D

**A Jerry Springer Kind Of Family Christmas (PG)**

**_Moya’s sleeping tier - 22nd December/Earth date_ **

Aeryn quietly glided along Moya’s long corridor on the sleeping tier.

She was feeling impatient, worried and annoyed.

As usual the Human awoke in her a myriad of feelings that often clashed uncomfortably in her chest. A unique ability of his for sure and a clear weakness on her part. Pity that with time she had started to enjoy the tumult of heart and mind that he inevitably threw her in. Masochistic much? She rolled her eyes at herself and continued her advance along the corridor.

She had commed Crichton several times in the last arn but had received no answer. So after a brief internal argument - one side telling her to go look for him, the other telling her to let him frell off and sulk if that’s what he wanted to do - she had decided to go searching for him. As if there had ever been a chance of a different result to her mental debate. Weak - that’s what she was, when it came to him.

She hated this time of the cycle. Not that it was of any particular relevance to her, but it meant a lot to John and, therefore, to her annoyance and against her better judgement, it had become meaningful to her too. And, given John’s recent unstable state of mind, she had been dreading its coming around - this was the third time since she had met the Human. But come around it had and, like clockwork, Crichton had withdrawn from her and from all the others aboard Moya to lick his homesickness wounds.

Chrissmas.

A Human tradition, which, in spite of many enthusiastic and detailed explanations from John, still sounded absurd, daft and mawkish to her. His stories about family reunions, presents, trees, baubles, antlered beasts hitched to flying vehicles, half naked babies in cribs, fat bearded men in red uniforms coming down ventilation flues to eat baked goods and drink juice squeezed from animals - all of it confused her and, frankly, made her feel a little nauseated. But he loved the whole thing. And he missed it beyond hope.

She finally reached his quarters and, without making a noise, she peered in through the door slats to check out the interior.

And there he was.

He was sprawled on his bed, face down, boots and leathers still on, staring sullenly at Moya’s wall, the one in his direct eye line. Fully awake but totally inert.

One thing she had always loved about him - from the very first time she had met him - was his lively mind, his curiosity and the ability of always keeping himself occupied with something or other even during long, boring voyages between planets when little or nothing happened to stave off the boredom of the dull passing of time. He was always fixing things, learning things, running - or “jogging” as he called it - along Moya’s corridors to keep himself fit, playing games with Chiana or Rygel or assisting Zhaan with her herbal experiments.

A still, quiet, unproductive Crichton was unnatural and utterly unsettling.

She stared at his unmoving form on the bed for another couple of microts and made her mind up - she was going to do something about this untenable situation because - frell it! - she missed him and his chatting and his high energy and above all, because she needed to distract him from whatever was going on in that brain of his that more and more, in recent times, seemed to be inhabited by some all-pervading phantom.

Aeryn stalked away unnoticed and immediately called for a meeting of the crew in Pilot’s den to implement her plan to cheer John up.

____

_**Pilot’s Den - 20 macrots later** _

“Crichton is not himself. We are going to recreate the Human festivity of Chrissmas on Moya to make John feel better.” She announced to the others in her no-nonsense, ‘don’t argue with me”, kick-ass PK tone of voice.

The ‘don’t argue with me’ tone however fell on deaf ears, because of course this was Moya and her crew always had to argue about stuff when formulating plans and before taking action. Aeryn should have known better - this was not a Command Carrier and these were not disciplined PKs. She sighed.

“Will this require a lot of work? Because a Dominar should not be asked to exert himself physically or otherwise.” Rygel said while chewing on a piece of grolack.

“That sounds like a stupid idea and a waste of time to me.” D’Argo declared.

“Well, we don’t really know much about this Chrissmas festival, which Commander Crichton has mentioned before. It would be hard to recreate it accurately.” Pilot pointed out.

“We are pretty broke, Aeryn. Will this require a lot of Krindars?” Chiana wondered.

Zhaan was the only one who said nothing at first but when everybody had finally stopped being negative about the whole thing, she spoke :”Crichton is going through a tough time. I think Aeryn’s idea to cheer him up is an excellent one.” She said in her quiet but assertive way. “We will all contribute to making it happen and, as John says, ‘many hands make light work’”.

“That’s an idiotic saying if you ask me…” Rygel groused before letting his complaints peter out under Zhaan's unwavering stare of reproach.

Aeryn felt the unusual urge to hug Zhaan for taking her side, but of course she didn’t. Because one thing is becoming more in life, another thing is going around like a feeble minded simpleton hugging other beings indiscriminately when recreation does not immediately ensue.

So, instead, Aeryn cleared her throat and said: “Fine, now that that’s settled, here is the plan and what you all need to do to make it happen. And don’t you breathe a word of it to Crichton, you hear me? I want it to be a surprise.”

_____

_**3 solar days and many, many arguments later** _

Three solar days later Moya’s crew were ready to enact their surprise for Crichton.

In the last 72 arns John had barely made an appearance at meals, he had only picked at his food, he had answered questions in monosyllables, had refused to enter into conversation or offer help where needed for the maintenance of the ship and instead taken refuge in his quarters as soon as he could get away, where he would lock himself up in self-isolation just to lie there like a limp flibbisk about to give up the ghost.

Seeing him like that had, in fairness, affected not only Aeryn but all of the others as well and all on board had started to feel uncomfortable and fidgety around him.

So - despite their many arguments about how to proceed - they had set about making Chrissmas for him with alacrity and a certain amount of expectant unspoken eagerness. They anticipated his delighted reaction, which would surely be pay back for all the unpleasant and unfamiliar tasks that they had undertaken after listening to Aeryn and all that she had told them about Chrissmas on Erp as related to her by John.

They had chosen the Mess Hall as their stage, as it were, and managed to keep Crichton away from it for the time necessary to set it up the best way they could according to Aeryn’s instructions.

They had also brought aboard a one-eyed Hynerian they had met on the last commerce planet that they had visited. A shopping expedition in which Crichton, to everybody’s astonishment, had not shown any interest, opting instead to stay behind and sulk some more. A behaviour which, however, had given them the chance to make some necessary purchases for the surprise to come.

Trillux, the one eyed Hynerian, had claimed to be an expert cook and had offered, for a meagre pecuniary return, to come onboard and cook up a feast that would leave them all breathless and would restore their ailing shipmate’s appetite for food and life.

Trillux had also claimed to be distantly related to the House of Rygel through a cousin twice removed. At which claim Rygel had snorted and replied that all Hynerians, all 600 billions of them, were somehow, to some degree, related to the House of Rygel - didn’t he know that all sixteen Dominars of his lineage had been prolific sires with all of their innumerable wives and concubines? But, in spite of his snooty and supercilious remarks to put Trillux’s claims in their proper place, he had insisted that they bring him along because Hynerians were renowned food connoisseurs and chefs and Trillux would be a great asset in producing something resembling “a Chrissmas cookies and milk feast”, whatever that might be back on Earth.

They had bought ingredients that Trillux recommended as being ideal for a festive occasion such as the one they were trying to recreate and they had also purchased a large, green plant that Aeryn assured them would certainly look like what Crichton had called a Chrissmas tree.

In reality it looked like a droopy giant fern but of course they were not aware of it. As they were equally not aware that once removed from planetside and brought onboard ship, this apparently harmless plant would bloom and produce toxic spores. But more about that later.

__________

_**Still 3 solar days later or Christmas Day on Earth** _

“Crichton!” Aeryn called from the entrance to his quarters, addressing his fine eema that once again was all she could see together with his legs, back and back of the head - all of which were lying prone on the bed.

No answer.

“John!” Aeryn raised her voice this time making it clear that she would not countenance his refusal to acknowledge her for much longer.

“What?” He finally answered, muffled by having his face pressed into a pillow.

“I need your assistance in the Mess Hall.” Aeryn explained.

“Later.” He said.

Aeryn’s hands began to flex in annoyance.

“I need it now, please.” She said, trying to keep her voice even and barely managing.

“Ask D’Argo.”

“D’Argo is busy.”

“Chiana?”

“Chiana is busy too.”

“Zhaan then.”

“Also busy. How many times do I have to ask you before you finally accept that you are my last resort?” Aeryn finally snapped.

“Nag, nag, nag.” John muttered

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m comin’.” He finally lifted himself off the bed, threw her an annoyed look but followed her out into the corridor.

“What’s so urgent that it could not wait until later?” He asked

“Just wait and see.” Aeryn replied cryptically.

“Aeryn, I’m not in the mood for your sh.. - dren. What do you need my help with?”

But Aeryn just ignored him and quickened her pace towards the Mess Hall and John had no choice but to trot after her, cursing under his breath and failing - so profound was his foul mood! - to admire her fine figure walking ahead of him.

Finally, Aeryn stopped just outside the Mess Hall, turned around and with a wide, unexpected smile lighting up her face she waited for him to come close, then put a splayed hand on his chest to stop him from going in too soon and said: “Happy Chrissmas, John. This is our present to you.” And with these sweet words she actioned the mechanism to open the door and stepped aside to show him the surprise inside, all the while looking at his face to soak up what were, she was sure, his soon to appear amazement and joy.

John, truly surprised and now also speechless, took it all in.

In the center of the room towered a fern-like, droopy plant of a sickly green hue decorated with what appeared to be scraps of torn clothing and an assortment of various metallic spare parts most likely scrounged from the maintenance bay.

D’Argo, wearing what looked like a Nebari wig dangling from his chin wattle, was hanging upside down from a vent on the ceiling and cursing so fast and so extensively that all John could hear was the original Luxan language unfiltered by his overwhelmed microbes. The big guy had clearly gotten stuck while recreating what, John assumed, was Santa coming down a chimney and his short temper had reached and far surpassed its always very tenuous limit.

Chiana, dressed in a floppy red hat, a green outfit and yellow tights - obviously a Christmas elf of sorts - was arguing with Rygel, who lay supine in a tool crate filled with some undefined yellow stuffing, kicking his legs and complaining at the top of his voice about how undignified and humiliating this all was. Baby Cheesus and his crib could go and take a jump out of an airlock - he was saying with disgust at the top of his voice - he no longer wanted to be part of this absurd charade just to please the hapless Human. Chiana, to her credit, was doing her best to shut his gob by force-feeding him some purple looking pudding-like cake but failing miserably in her valiant effort to stop him from moaning, spitting out the food and pushing and shoving her away from him.

Zhaan and a Hynerian John failed to recognize - where the hell had they got another Hynerian and why had they brought him on board? Wasn’t one Hynerian onboard Moya, or any ship in the universe for that matter, more than enough? - were arguing over a colorful pile of food that Zhaan apparently had deemed inedible to the dismay and resentment of the unknown fellow who had obviously prepared it.

While John was still taking it all in, Zhaan - more agitated than John had ever seen her - swore that no money would pass hands since they had clearly been lied to about the catering ability of the newly arrived conman. Conman who, in good Hynerian fighting tradition, reacted to her tirade by launching himself at her and sinking his teeth into her arm.

While John was still rooted to the spot and too shocked by it all to move, Aeryn, alarmed, rushed from his side to Zhaan’s aid, grabbed Trillux’s legs and pulled and pulled and pulled until he finally let go of Zhaan’s arm, suddenly and catastrophically. Unable to stop the impetus of her last pull, Aeryn went barrelling backwards, Trillux in tow, into the giant fern, which, toppled and trampled by the pair, released its aforementioned toxic spores all over the room.

Silence finally reigned for a microt as everybody’'s eyes began to water.

“What the hezmana is happening?” Rygel finally broke the stunned silence, tears streaming down his face “What kind of plant is…” But before he could finish his question, his three stomachs heaved and he projectile-vomited purple, yellow, green and all-colours-of-the-rainbow food all over the place, Exorcist style.

He was the first to “Regan McNeil”, but certainly not the last.

Everybody in the proximity of the treacherous plant soon felt the effects of the spores and following Rygel’s example, doubled over and threw up their last three repasts with wild abandon onto Moya’s floor, or, in D’Argo’s case, spewed them from the ceiling fire-sprinkler style.

Still standing in the doorway and therefore being the farthest away from the spores, John had enough time to watch all of his crewmates and the obnoxious stranger get violently sick before his own eyes began to water. He only barely had the chance to sarcastically mutter to himself: “It’s as easy as uno, dos....” before his own half empty stomach churned so hard that the “tres” shot out of him accompanied by whatever his body had not yet digested plus a geyser of gastric juices.

__________

_**Some arns later, after the DRDs had cleaned the vomitous mess while plotting revenge on all and sundry** _

Aeryn was once again looking for John who had made another disappearing act without uttering a word to her or anybody else after his Crissmas surprise and the mass emesis that had ensued.

Convinced she would find him there once again just as depressed and deflated as before, she went straight to his quarters but his bed was devoid of Human blob this time, as was the “bathroom” - as John mystifyingly called it - and the rest of the room.

Perplexed, she checked the terrace, his favorite maintenance bay and the room where he regularly kept himself fit by lifting weights, but all to no avail.

Finally, as she was approaching the entrance to Pilot’s den she heard the weirdest of noises coming from within - a noise she had never come across before for sure - accompanied by what seemed to be hiccupping and choking and snorting, all in this case clearly coming from John’s mouth.

Alarmed, Aeryn hurried into the room only to find Crichton propped up with his elbows on Pilot’s console. The unidentified noise that had had her so puzzled just a few microts earlier turned out to her relief to be nothing sinister but something altogether rather disconcerting: Pilot was laughing so hard and so incessantly that the poor creature could barely manage to take a breath - he was literally gasping loudly out for air at the colourful yarn John was verbally weaving for his benefit.

“...and then, wait for it, Pilot…” John in turn snorted and laughed in such powerful fits that he was unable to continue his story and had to take a break to calm down and wipe his eyes from the tears of mirth “No, seriously wait for it… D’Argo hanging from the.... from the ceiling opens his mouth and showers both… both…”

“Nonono, please Commander….” Pilot begged, choked up and breathless “ please stop, I can’t… I just can’t”, followed by more convulsed laughter and wheezing.

“... both Aeryn and Pip with vomit…” John’s shoulders visibly shook as he dissolved in another fit of hiccupping hilarity “...from head to toe. I mean, they were just covered in it, Pilot! Oh man, you should have seen it! Big, thick, orange chunks all over them!”

Aeryn had heard enough. She quietly withdrew from the room without being noticed by the two idiotic chuckleheads.

On one hand she was annoyed at being made the butt of their jokes, on the other hand she couldn’t deny that her Crissmas surprise had turned out to be a complete and utter disaster from beginning to end. At least John had now cheered up - albeit at her and her efforts’ expense -, so not all of it had been a complete write off after all.

She sighed and thought ‘Thank Cholak, another Crissmas is over. Only 12 more monens 'till the next one…” and then she brought herself back to the present and what had to be done. Trillux needed to be ferried back to the planet they had got him from and she wasn’t going to take any chances about it, which meant that she was going to load him onto one of Moya’s pods and fly him back personally because, really, if you want a job well done, you just have to do it yourself and not trust anybody else, especially if that anybody else was a member of Moya’s crew.

But first, well first she’d go back to her quarters and take yet another shower, the fourth one in the last three arns to be precise, because no matter how hard or for how long she had soaped and scrubbed herself the previous three times, she could still smell Luxan vomit wafting off her person at every step, just as strongly as if a full bottle of the foulest of Zhaan’s oils had been poured all over her body.

‘Happy Crissmas to me’, she sardonically and miserably thought.

The End


End file.
